Remember When
by thegreatbluespoon
Summary: What will you remember?


Okay, I should mention now that there is CD in this. Yup, probably should have put it in the summary, but you wouldn't have clicked on this if you saw that, and you know it. But...it's not all "Look at that gaping neck wound, Batman!" It's more like "Oh, hey, that guy's dead. Not cool, Spoon, not cool."

Kakidoll is the bomb diggity fresh for doing the beta jazz on this. TDCSI is cool (but would be cooler if she'd shut up about my brother) for helping me, too. Also, props to Pau and Dave for their forced help.

Yeah, and this is another one of those fics where I semi-followed some eps, but mostly ignored others because they angered me. (I know, imagine _that_.)

* * *

Being born- eh, no big deal. Not like you did a lot of work in that whole mess of things, anyway. 

Going home from the hospital for the first time- oh, come on. You don't remember any of that, either.

Growing up for the first few years- an occasional memory or two strikes you every now and again when you're older. You wake up, remembering the all too frequent dream about bubble gum manufacturing on Neptune that you just had again, and for some reason, an odd connection hits you. That lady, the one whose name that you can only remember began with an 'N', she gave you gum and wiped your tears, before she took your hand and walked you around the grocery store until you found your mother again.

Or, now, when the customer behind you at the diner says something a little too loud about how "_that prick gets his hair in my eggs like that goddamn Jap down the street, and I'll get this place shut down, too_." The man's voice, readily-shared racist opinion, horrid comb-over, and the temperamental way he stirs his coffee, it reminds you of your father's father. He wasn't your grandfather, but your father's father. He stopped being 'Grandpa' when he took you out for your eighth birthday and made you shoot that squirrel. And then another two. And don't forget the fourth, so that everyone could have a taste.

Why either of those things are the most readily available memories from your long-gone childhood now, who knows? Certainly not you, so take your hopefully hairless eggs and wander on home.

First days of school- everyone remembers those. Right? Well, even if you didn't really remember them, you'd remember the girl. If you didn't remember her, _her_, then you'd shoot yourself in the foot, probably both, if need be, until you did. God damn it, beaver damn it, you'd damn it if you could, because she was most amazing. And when the perfect blue-raspberry bubble gum recipe wasn't plaguing your sleep back then, she was. Her name, her name was Marjory, and she stole your glue that first day. Oh, what a crime of passion.

Attending the funeral of a loved one- no one wants to. Fucking ever. People don't go in with a single bad thought surrounding them. They go in with loving recollection of the person that no longer is, of the soul that is gone. You go in, your memories intact, and when people ask you what you will remember most about the man, you close your eyes and go back.

You and Uncle Joe are splitting wood for the stove and he's telling you about all the times he and your late father spent trying to get the ladies, back in their day. Then, he stops, looks at you funny and laughs. He says something about your being too young to hear those stories, and that your mother would 'kill him dead' if she heard him telling them. You say to just ignore your mother and go on. What he says is what you remember most about him, almost about anyone. He says never to say that again, and to pay attention to everything that woman says. "_Actually, Gilbert, from here on out, you go through life paying attention to everyone and remembering everything they tell you. Even fools. Dumbass or not, everyone's got an ounce of wisdom somewhere."_

And so, when you were getting your ass handed to you in the seventh grade by that behemoth, Chris, who was shouting things about how "_It don't matter how smart you are, you always do stupid shit_," (who knew killing the math curve was _stupid_?) you paid attention to the words. As you were told, you remembered them and the dumbass wisdom behind them, not the reason for the scar just under the right side of your jaw.

The first and only time you broke something major on your body- your mother always told you that stairs weren't something to be played on, and, wouldn't you know it, she was right. Of course, you were well over the age of childish behavior, so it's not that you were really playing on the stairs, but you weren't really _not_ playing on them, either. Not paying attention was what you were doing, and you've always taken that as horsing around…so, yeah, you were playing. Next time, watch out, idiot, and you won't have this kind of thing bouncing around your memory bank.

Gracing the family with your presence at Aunt Lottie's **seventh **gaudy wedding- yeah, your uncle _may_ have told you to pay attention and to remember everything people say to you, but really, you've heard all this stuff before.

Six. Times. Before.

So, you force yourself to stay awake for the nuptials, and head to the reception. There, you pick a quiet corner and begin to people watch.

Cousin Will, why, oh why, do you feel the need to wear a toupee that's two shades off your natural hair color? After laughing when the flower girl grabbed it from his head and ran off with it, your eyes find other things of interest in the room.

Ooh, are those crab-cakes?

This time around, it's them that cause you to remember. And there are three reasons you will remember those crab-cakes for the rest of your life. One- holy mother of some kind of totally amazing crustacean that cannot possibly be crab, since crab has never tasted that fucking amazing. Two- the waitress. The waitress, who, far from unattractive, fugly, plain, homely, or any synonym for ugly, is dancing through the crowd, confident, with that tray up on her palm. Besides that, there's not a care in her head while she does it. She doesn't even falter when your extremely drunk cousin pinches her rear. When you move from the corner and make your way towards those crab-cakes, meet your goal, grab some, eat some, grab some more and genuinely compliment her ('cause she's damn pretty and your momma taught you well), she nearly drops the tray as she walks away with a doofy grin. Three- because you grew bored again and went back to your quiet corner. A few minutes into the dancing, you hear clattering and go to inspect. The waitress, the epitome of catering perfection beforehand, has dropped an entire tray of the greatest thing to happen to crabs since the ocean.

She's embarrassed. You're amused. She's flushed and muttering cuss words while she picks up the food and tosses it on the tray. You're trying to hide a smirk while not-so-successfully hiding the fact that you're staring at her, as you help pick up the food.

She thanks you when it's cleaned up, but gives you a 'services no longer required' look when you question the fact that her ability has gone out the window. Apologizing, your usual way of tripping over words finds its way to your mouth, and she laughs at you. Now you'll never know whether she accepted the apology because she believed you meant it, or because you couldn't complete a sentence. She _did_ chuckle when she took it, though.

Even though you do possess the ability to read her nametag, you ask her name. She smiles, tells you it's Jen, and thanks you for not using the location of the nametag as an excuse for staring at her chest. This comment sets off the most insane thing- flirting. (_What_ was in those crab-cakes?) Yes, this was part of your original intention in sticking around after the food was cleaned up, but…bubble gum dreams be damned tonight, because this gorgeous woman is doing it right back. And she's good.

Half an hour later, you're both in the first closet you found that had a lock. (Seriously, what was in them?!) It's not like you to do anything remotely like it, and she tells you the same thing about herself. She repeats this again while she's getting redressed. Putting her shoes on, she tells you that you're a nice guy and all, but you do seem like the kind of guy who does 'that type of thing,' and that doesn't mesh well with who she really is. The sex was amazing (and no, you don't just say so yourself), but the woman and what she is saying to you, it's making your ego go from 'I am Man, hear me ROAR!' to 'Have you seen my testosterone? I seem to have misplaced it and my pocket protector,' and she succeeds in making you feel two very opposite things simultaneously: satisfaction and disappointment.

Bringing home a pet that doesn't want to eat the crotch out of every pair of underwear you own before he goes about throwing up massive piles of dog ralph all over your favorite/last clean sheets- "_OHH! _Isn't_ he _just_ the _cu-test_?! Him's even still got him's wittle doggie woggie tail_!" Hearing the woman next to you speak in gaspy squeals like that just makes your teeth hurt. You now feel the utmost obligation to never allow the surely insane woman to get her hands on the animal being squawked about. She offers the family selling him their asking price. You double it. The crazy gasper gives you the evil eye because it's the last critter, and she rips another twenty out of her purse. Hilarious. You throw down that and a fifty, winning yourself the most expensive non-technological thing you've splurged on in the last three years (the rare beetle farm doesn't count because they arrived dead).

You take him to one of those nifty stores that allow the pet inside with you. Whoever decided that the floors of the place were to remain the same as any other store must have had potty accidents in mind, and not the animals' walking ability. The dog, who you had previously discovered was about as graceful as a one-legged ballerina when he fell getting into (and out of) the car, was clearing off low shelves with his tail, slipping when he went around corners, and taking other dogs out when he got too excited, ran, fell and slid into them.

When he wasn't showing off his impressive doggie bowling skills, he was right at your side, even without you pulling on the leash or having to say anything to him. You got what the food 'expert' at the store told you to, grabbed a couple toys and a squeaky ball the dog seemed to enjoy (and you later came to resent that ball's wretched squeak), and got shiny bowls, a fluffy bed, and bacon snacks. At the register, you realized he was a very expensive friend, but when you looked down at him and he cocked his head to the side, his tongue fell out of his mouth, allowing drool to hit the floor where he patiently sat. You knew then that your very expensive friend was way better off with you than the 'doggie woggie' lady.

The first time you realized the love you had wasn't just some generic infatuation that went down a one-way street- you have countless memories of her, some of them bordering on the 'not-so-swell' variety, some downright horrible, but a lot of them are marvelous.

When memory mining, the first you go in for is **never** the day you failed to hide the fact that you took a certain blonde co-worker to a certain restaurant. Why? Because it was damn moronic in the first place, and it was at a certain time of day that just so happened to cause it to contain a few certain other co-workers (one in particular) that saw the two of you and then assumed you were on a, ew, date. (By the way, you know you're an idiot, right?)

There's the time you nearly broke her nose when you had yours so buried in the folder in your hands that you failed to notice she was behind you, and you shut the door in her face (and that douche bag EMT ended up tending to her. What was that dimwit's name? 'Douche bag EMT?' _Yeah_, that was it.) But there were also all those times you got that giant, toothy grin that you just _knew_ she gave only to you when you stepped a little faster to get ahead so that you could open a door for her.

But your greatest memory of her, the one you will always go after when just sitting around, well, it would have to be the day you decided that life was good, but it wasn't nearly good enough. She took you in with a smile. She didn't ask you why that day was so much better than any other day, didn't ask you why it was finally all right to go ahead and take a chance on her, and if that's what it was, just you taking a chance.

It wasn't too much longer after that, that she said something about loving you, and you said it back, proudly, knowing full well that she really, honestly, meant it when she did, and so did you.

You can't thank her enough for the time she spends with you, for the times she tolerates you and your clumsy dog, for the memories she fills you with, over and over again. You especially can't thank her enough for the times you yell at each other and she still comes back, even when you really think she won't. You always think you're going to screw it up, and you know she has the same fears as you, but you still know that, between the two of you, it's going to be you. Of course it'll be you. It has to be. You're the crotchety, socially-dense, work-addicted, never-trusting, emotionally-scarred old fart. How are you _not_ going to be the one to mess up the relationship? You ask her and she just tells you to 'go with it.' Whatever that means.

When the throbbing in your chest became too much to bear, causing you to drop to your knees ten feet from the phone, and you realized that your pained gasps for the only person that could help you were pointless, because she was still out getting dinner- Does anyone remember when they die? You're far too busy to realize if you do, because right now, you're trying to figure out just how in the world your father's father got into the same place you did.

And is that the glue-thieving Marjory?

Why is Uncle Joe hitting on the lady with the gum from when you were little?

Crap. Is that the waitress from Aunt Lottie's wedding waving at you?

They don't seem to notice you, so you just study them.

The old man, he's just sitting there, staring at you with an odd expression on his face. You think it's one of disappointment, but you can't really tell for sure. It doesn't matter, though. Growing up, you never could tell either.

You figured Marjory would be older when you finally saw her again, but she's still just as she was way back when. More freckles than she could ever count in her life, French-braids in her brown hair, and enough attitude to ruin any teacher's day- that was Marjory, and you never realized how much you really missed her, until now.

Uncle Joe, well, he's doing exactly what everyone would figure him to be doing.

The gum lady looks the same as the day you sort of met her, and you still can't remember what her name is, but you do remember just how scared you were that day at the store. You don't know how you and your mother were separated, but the woman was so nice, and she wouldn't stop until you two found her.

Jen, the waitress, you figure out that she _is _waving at you. You give a quick wave back and start thinking all about heavenly crab-cakes and ignorant, repetitive weddings. You start missing Sara.

You don't see Sara anywhere, and that eases the thoughts in your mind. You can safely assume that she's all right, since she isn't with you, wherever you are.

Uncle Joe is the first one to say something to you. He moves away from the gum lady, walks up to you with a smile, slaps you on the back and asks you what you think of his new friend. You tell him that, if she weren't forever and a day older than you were, and obviously dead, she'd be attractive. He laughs and hits your back again, telling you how nice it is to see you before he walks away.

The lady is next. She comes over and shakes your hand. The feel of it now is the same as it was when you were a scared child, and it's incredibly comforting. Reaching into her pocket, she asks you, 'red or yellow,' and you go with red. She tells you how great that is because that's all she's got, and pulls out a piece of red gum. It's the best piece of gum you've ever had, and she pats your cheek before she goes back to Joe.

Freckle-face Marjory skips over to you, and she tells you that your glue was the gooiest ever, and that was neat. Twisting one braid around a finger, she giggles and tells you she likes your beard. You tell her that you like her pretty braids, and she giggles again, before skipping back to where she was. The way she talks and looks, and the way she acts, it makes you wonder how old she really was when she came here.

The man you really don't wish to see comes next. He waits for you to say something, but seeing that it's not going to happen, he snorts and says, "Come on, Gilbert, you aren't just pissed about goddamn furry animals." And it's true; you aren't. You are pissed about the fact that he forced you to kill when you didn't want to, but you're also pissed about the childhood your father had because of him, the marriage your mother had because of his dislike for her, and the fact that he had no remorse for any of it, ever. You admit to yourself that you may miss him, slightly, but you never told him that. Not even now.

He's barely gone when the waitress is standing in front of you. She's smiling and reminding you that her name is Jen, just in case you didn't remember one of your conquests. You try to tell her that you really aren't like that, and that you never have been, but she cuts you off. "I know." She laughs when she says it, as if she should have known that back at the closet, too.

She's the last to talk to you, and no one's said anything about what's going on, so you ask her. She tells you nothing of where you are, but she does tell you about the people around you. You understand faster than you figured you would. "It's the people that have mattered most in your life, whether you've realized it or not."

Jen knows all about everyone, too. Her knowledge about everything is ethereal and creepy, sure, but you allow her to go on as she helps explain why each one is there, even though you're pretty sure you can guess on your own about some of them.

You were too young to bring the bubble gum lady to mind, so Jen tells you. You weren't but three years old, and you were ready to give up on life. Sitting under the table of pineapples, nearly wetting your pants because you were crying so hard, the store was _so _big, and there were _so _many people. Your mother told you not to let go of her hand, and you promised her you wouldn't. If that idiot businessman would have watched where he was going, he wouldn't have bumped into you, and you wouldn't have been guided away from her. You fell away from the crowd and couldn't see your mother, so you got scared. Like any kid in a place full of strange people, you cried for your mom. When she didn't come, you hid.

You start to nod because you can remember the tiniest pieces of what she tells you, and she asks if you want to know her name. You nod harder, and she tells you it's Nancy. You yell your thanks over to her, and Nancy smiles back at you. Looking at her, you know. Nancy is there because when she found you, she wiped your tears and told you it was okay to cry, that everyone gets scared in life, even big kids and grown-ups. Taking your hand, she helped you out from under that table and asked if you mom allowed you candy. You said "_not really_," and she laughed and gave you gum anyway, saying it seemed like an okay time to break a rule.

Chewing the gum, sniffling, and holding her hand, you walked around the store for what seemed like hours until you found your mother, who was equally upset. She didn't yell at you for letting go of her hand, or for crying like Grandpa would have, or for chewing gum. She hugged you until you thought your head was going to pop off, and she thanked the lady a hundred times, and then tried to pay her for what she did.

Nancy would have none of it. She did what was right and that was that. "_What kind of person would take money for returning a scared, crying child to his mother?" _she asks.

Your father's father. Even though you do wish he'd found his way to some other place, you do get why he's there…once Jen helps you out a bit. Even though you were eight, it was the first time someone had made you do something you really had no desire to do. And it was something major.

You never minded homework, and when it came to helping your parents out, you never had a problem with it because you didn't exactly have an abundance of friends knocking on the door. When your grandpa said you were going on a trip for your birthday, you thought nothing of it because you were going to hang out with Grandpa, and that thought excited you. Once that gun was in your hand and the orders were being shouted at you, the excitement was gone, and you felt resentment for the first time in your life.

Grandpa used to be okay. He'd always been the only one you had, because the other one was in 'Heaven.' Great Aunt Sue and some guy your dad always called 'that Phillip sumbitch' are there with him, even though the way your dad talked about Phillip always made you think he'd be down below, if such a place existed. But Grandpa would bring you presents every time he would come over, and he would always tell these great stories from when he was little.

And then he took you hunting, forced you to pull the trigger, and called you a girl when you cried.

Jen doesn't need to say anything about why Marjory is there. She was the first girl you ever loved. She didn't really love you back, just wanted your glue, but she did like you a little bit more than she did some of the other boys. She even told you that one day, when one of them tripped you. Marjory told him that he smelled like dog farts, and poured glue on his homework when no one was looking.

Since she lived up the road from you, you walked home together. You asked her to be your girlfriend on one trip home. Even being so young when you heard it, you'll always remember what she told you that day because she sounded so grown up once the giggles stopped. She told you, "_Gilbert Grissom, I can't be your girlfriend because you're too smart for me. But don't think I'll be your girlfriend if you act dumb. I'll hate you if you do that. You're smart like that for a reason_." It was weird hearing her talk like that, but then she said "_at least _you_ don't smell like dog farts_," and you both laughed and walked on.

You don't need help in figuring out why Uncle Joe is there, either. He helped you more in life than nearly anyone else by doing so little. Listening to people, actually hearing them, and reading them ('people' excluding Sara there for a while, of course) is what got you through your life and made you what you are. In your career, if you hadn't done what he told you to do, then you lost. Yes, you ignored Hodges and Ecklie, but who wouldn't? He made you remember the most about life and the people in it, and you'll never be able to thank him enough for it.

You do need her help for why she is there. Surely it's not because you had sex at your aunt's wedding. The sex was great, true, but no way can that have her beat out, say, your ninth grade science teacher, Mrs. Leare. She _winked_ at you when you beat everyone during the science fair, and that woman was beautiful, so your morale that night was through the roof, just as it had been right before the waitress stomped it to tiny bits.

Jen tells you that you see her because she 'fueled the fire.' When you obviously have no clue what the heck that means, she explains that what she did to you succeeded in allowing your mind to swallow you. Clearly, she didn't mean to. She didn't know what saying those things in the closet would do to you. After you went home from the wedding, you sat in your house and thought of all the relationships you'd had in the past. When that took all of three minutes, you realized that you were nothing to want. You decided, right then and there, that your mind is where you would reside.

That's not really something you want to hear when you die, but all right. She shot you down, helped turn you into a hermit. Great. That surely would have been nice if it had been so easily explainable to Sara back in the day (not the whole 'did a waitress in a closet' thing, but the rest, yeah).

So, even though the effect the waitress had on your life may have been an odd, negative effect, it was still a very big one. You realize that's the reason you see her now. She made you what you were, what you still are, sort of. Sara was helping you as you worked on fixing that about yourself, but now that's not really a problem anymore.

Now you ask Jen if Sara's going to be around. She has to be. Sara had more of an impact on your life than anyone. Sara changed you for the better, in every way imaginable. She taught you that letting go, giving, taking, and just being, were all just fine. You still love her, and you know she still loves you. She didn't lose it over the fact that you forgot to tell her 'Happy Anniversary' because you were so excited about your new pet project, or that the dog may not eat _your _underwear... She accepted that you were a little off because she was, too, and you loved that. The thought of any world without her is so heavy and wrong that you can't bear to think about it.

Jen tells you that Sara will be around, but she won't tell you when. She says it's against the rules to tell you, and that everyone has to follow the rules.

"Whose rules?"

She sticks a finger up in the air, twirls it as she rolls her eyes and laughs, "Just go with it."

Whatever that means.

* * *

For the first time ever, I will actually apologize. If you feel that I went religious on you here, I'm sorry. I'm totally non-religious, I just feel that we remember things for a reason. My bad if this came off soap-boxy. 

With that randomness out of the way...dole out some more in ridiculously awesome reviews. 'Cause you know you want to.

thegreatbluespoon


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